tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-53284608843845055482014-10-04T17:55:28.607-07:00Fufu LouThe views expressed in this blog are my own and in no way reflect the views of the Peace Corps or the United States' government.
This is just a little about my Peace Corps service. Feel free to leave comments.Fu Fu Louhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16285965959861195438noreply@blogger.comBlogger27125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5328460884384505548.post-84313498396694711012010-11-03T07:55:00.000-07:002010-11-03T08:09:19.817-07:00A Post for Betty JoSo it’s been awhile since my last post. Sorry about that. I could offer excuses of broken computers, lacking electricity, and general busy-ness, but electricity and internet really are in limited supply, so we’ll just assume I’ve done that and move forward. Right now, I’ll just share a story that I think sums up what, another time, will be a considerably lengthier response to your question, “So how’s Togo?” This post is especially for Betty Jo, who has been kind enough to keep sending cards and notes despite my rather impolite disappearance from the blogosphere and who has requested, on numerous occasions, an update.<br /><br />One of the most difficult aspects of life as a Peace Corps Volunteer in Togo is what I can only describe as the general roughness of people. Life here is hard. It’s hard for me (how, after all, am I supposed to get by without cold Diet Cokes and an iPhone???), but that’s nothing to what it is for the average resident of Namon. Malnutrition affects as many as one third of our children, malaria is rampant, most of the women I know can’t read or write; sometimes there is no rain, and then there is not much food to go around. Other times, when the rain finally comes, it does so with such force and fury that families are left homeless, their mud huts obliterated by the torrential downpours and destructive winds. With all of this hardship comes a harshness on the part of the people. The boon companions of poverty and little education, domestic violence and alcoholism often leave their mark on our community. Men mistreat and fail to appreciate their wives, children are abused and often seem undervalued by their parents, and it sometimes feels as if anyone in a position of authority needlessly asserts it over those they see as less important than themselves. It is particularly difficult to see this behavior and not think to oneself how self-destructive it really is, not to want to tell them how much easier things could be if they would simply try being a little gentler with one another. With so many difficulties just facts of life, it seems silly to add all the strife that comes with this kind of social stratification. I don’t know how much of it can be blamed on colonization and how much is inherent to human nature, but it colors my experiences here.<br /><br />In Namon, Thursday is market day, the busiest day of the week for just about everyone. Most of the women and girls sell some sort of good in the bustling center of town, and from the early morning, you can see them about their preparations. From fresh vegetables, various cheaply made plastic containers, dried fish, and handmade soap to fried yams, spicy tofu, and local beer, everyone seems to have something on offer. Those who don’t sell don their finest and come into town to peruse the wares of others. It is the social event of the week, with not only local participants but vendors from nearby larger cities, who come in with jewelry, bicycle parts, “dead yovo” clothing (the local term for those Hammer pants, stonewashed jeans, plaid flannel jackets, and other Goodwill rejects you’ve been donating all these years, so named because people assume that the only reason to part with perfectly good clothing is that the owner has died without any family to lay claim to all that loot), and all kinds of merchandise not normally available in a small village. Nobody misses it. During the rainy season, a lot of folks still have to work in their fields in the morning, but by early afternoon, they, too, have made their way over. <br /><br />Generally speaking, most of the real shopping gets done in the first several hours of the market (which really gets going between ten and eleven in the morning), and by three o’clock, the local sellers are out of their fresh produce, and the first of the big city merchants have begun to pack up shop for the day. The vast majority of market frequenters, however, purchase little or nothing from these vendors, anyway. They don’t have much money, and once they have bought a bowl of spicy peppers for that week’s dinners, they stick around to socialize, which for most people is the real point of the market. They sit under open grass huts and chatter the afternoon away over calabashes of warm millet beer called tchouk. For most people, the market is a rare opportunity to relax a little bit among friends. Children, for the most part, don’t have lessons in the afternoon and are left, more or less, to their own devices, which they seem to like just fine. <br /><br />Market day can also, however, be pretty stressful, especially if you’re the lone white, American woman in a small village. While I rarely face any kind of harassment from the residents of Namon, market day brings with it visitors from many other villages who consider me something of an entertaining oddity. When faced with a single proposal of marriage, I find I have gotten good at deflecting with humor and what I hope is a little grace (as many of you know, not always my strong point), but as the afternoon rolls on and the tchouk continues to flow, these encounters become both more frequent and more obnoxious. For this reason, I tend to avoid the market once mid-afternoon has passed, knowing that a large number there will have been “over-served,” if you will. Nonetheless, because my house is not far, I can hear the goings on well into the night. <br /><br />Namon is generally pretty quiet after eight in the evening, but on market day, everything is different. Loud music and louder conversations can be heard from quite a distance. Most of these sounds are genial, but it’s not terribly uncommon to hear, also, the sounds of an angry dispute or even an all out fight erupt from the vat of liquid courage that is the night market. By ten thirty or eleven, even these sounds tend to have died down, and our sleepy village is sleepy again. <br /><br />It was with some surprise and a little distress, then, that a few Thursdays ago just before midnight, I heard the distinct sound of a child screaming. Shortly thereafter, I heard several people run outside my bedroom window, speaking frantically to one another. By the time I found my shoes and walked to the back of the house, no one was there, but within a few minutes, they seemed to have returned with more screaming and more hushed arguing. On a few occasions in my village life, I have witnessed truly disturbing scenes of violence toward children, once even driven from my bed by the screams of a child being beaten by his older brother. In these instances, I did what I could to intervene but was met mostly with amusement, a response more infuriating to me even than the defensive anger I had anticipated. Though in one or two cases, I succeeded in putting an end to the episode, I do not delude myself that I inspired any lasting behavior change. Recalling, then, these incidents, I was immediately frightened for the child screaming somewhere not far from my window. It was, after all, market day, which meant the odds of an alcohol-induced episode of domestic violence were (at least in my mind) significantly higher.<br /><br />I went into my back yard and waited, still hearing an occasional scream followed by shouting a little way off. This time, when the voices came close, I could see that it was a group of boys and that they were running away from someone carrying a flashlight. I grabbed one of them and demanded he tell me what they were doing, why the other child was screaming. At first, he looked away from me and told me he really needed to run, but when I refused to let him go, he finally explained to me what was going on. They were, he said, in the middle of an important hunt, in which the children hid themselves in the dark and tried not to be seen by other kids running around with lights. The screams I heard were of children who had been discovered. They were, in short, playing flashlight tag. I laughed out loud at the information and quickly let the kids go to find good hiding places. Then I went inside and back to bed. <br /><br />As I laid in bed smiling to myself about the children, I realized that life in Namon is not really all that different than life anywhere else in the world. That is to say, difficult things happen and we handle them badly; we take out our anger, fear, and frustration on those we love; and we do what we can to feel a little better about ourselves, even at the expense of those around us. Life here may never be as gentle as I’d like it to be, and there a lot of problems Namon will continue to face, but for the most part, people are doing their best just like people everywhere else. Children here seem almost a dime a dozen sometimes, and they don’t receive the kind of attention here we’re used to giving at home (I have yet to see a single Kindermusik or Tiny Tots’ Tumbling class), but that means, too, that they have a kind of freedom children in the US haven’t known for generations. I’m not saying this is all for the best, and I will continue to object to people’s mistreatment of each other, but there is a level of security and of community here that one rarely finds at home. Either way, it’s my community, and I think I don’t mind being woken to find excited neighborhood kids hiding in my yard.Fu Fu Louhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16285965959861195438noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5328460884384505548.post-42844028236468036242009-12-22T05:56:00.001-08:002009-12-22T05:56:50.189-08:00There Won’t be Snow in Africa this Christmas (Except at my house)That’s right, the holidays are upon us. And I think I have shared with some of you that I have been pleasantly surprised by the lack of homesickness accompanying this season. Of course, a lot of that has to do with the lack of Christmassiness. Or at least a lack of the American kind. It’s not cold, there is not a Jackson Five Christmas album in sight, not a single person has reminded me how many shopping days are left, I’ve seen no one dressed as Santa, and no one’s sung about parts to a Mustang GT. Additionally, I do not feel stressed out about gifts or travel plans or gaining weight, and I missed out on the annual treat that is Advent Lessons and Carols. Luckily, I have fantastic friends and family who won’t let me forget Christmas altogether, and my sister Jenny, in addition to sending me a completely vegetarian, air mail friendly Thanksgiving dinner also included wrapped gifts, ornaments, and icicles, which I think fit perfectly in my 95 degree winter wonderland. Combined with the moringa tree I planted a few weeks ago, I feel like a regular Better Homes and Gardens article.<br /><br />Despite all my powers of homey décor, I think this Christmas will be unlike any other I’ve known thus far. At Thanksgiving, I kind of lucked out. About twenty volunteers got together, and by combining our culinary prowess and preservative filled goodies from loved ones in the land of Stove Top and Sara Lee, we were able to pull together a really lovely dinner complete with a locally grown turkey prepared by a very talented Togolaise chef. Other menu items included macaroni and cheese, green bean casserole, bread and butter, stuffed tomatoes, mashed potatoes and gravy, cranberry sauce, and malaria prophylaxis. It was a really great time and had for about eight American dollars per person. Not a bad deal. However, since I did spend Thanksgiving away, I have plans to do all my Christmassing in Namon. So far the festivities will include two church services, a pig, several kilos of fufu, a barrel of tchouk, and lots of dancing. It’s not exactly like home, but I think it will be a good time nonetheless. If I can’t be at home with all of you, this isn’t a bad second choice. Certainly, it should be at least as interesting. <br /><br />In my last post before Christmas, this seems as good a time as any to say thanks to all of you who have been so wonderful at keeping in touch and making things easier for me here. It’s hard for me to believe that I’ve already been gone more than six months. As for all the important days I’ve missed in the two months since my last post, you once again have my apologies. I hope they were all happy.<br /><br />Happy Birthdays to Bryon T, who is older than his hair suggests; Thomas C, who is younger than his hair suggests; Rachel J, who, I hope, got her first fancy wifey birthday card this year; Kate L, who seems to have celebrated thirty by moving to Brazil; Varina and Zachary, the birthday twins who both have great bottoms; Taylor T., who still likes Avril Lavine regardless of what she tells you; and to Connor L., whose party, I hope was even greater than Potterfest ‘08!<br /><br />In the near future, Happy Birthdays to Erica, who will never get over having to share with Jesus; and Johnny, who doesn’t care who he shares his birthday with as long as he can do it in Atlantic city. Also, very soon, a happy 19th anniversary to my parents. <br /><br />MERRY CHRISTMAS!Fu Fu Louhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16285965959861195438noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5328460884384505548.post-2821603100543589912009-12-22T05:52:00.000-08:002009-12-22T05:53:17.005-08:00A Day in the LifeOkay, one of the questions I get the most from all of you at home goes something like this, “Wow, Emily, Togo sounds really interesting and cool. I especially like hearing about all the ways you’ve humiliated yourself, but…what do you…you know, do there?” When I first got to post, this was a somewhat difficult question to answer. Well, if not difficult, it was a sort of embarrassing question to answer. It takes time to get things started in this part of the world, so the truth would have been something like, “I have two or three ‘meetings’ a week, I sit around the clinic, I make French language flashcards, and I do crossword puzzles in astonishing volume.” You can see why I wasn’t eager to broadcast my busy schedule. Now that I’ve finally figured out how to start doing actual work, I thought I would share a little of that with all of you. <br /><br />In a normal week, I spend three or four mornings a week at the clinic helping with various initiatives. On Mondays, we have a program for malnourished children at which we give out enriched flour and nutrition lessons and track the growth of all the babies to make sure everyone is making progress. On Wednesdays, we do more general growth/health sessions for healthy babies. These times also serve as an opportunity to identify those children who could use extra help on Mondays, and on Thursdays, we do vaccinations. I obviously cannot give the injections, but I help prepare them, and I give the oral Polio vaccination and vitamin A capsules to the babies or nursing mothers. Each of these sessions starts out with a brief health lesson, and preparing and presenting these lessons to the mothers is a big part of my work. Right now, a lot of my time is dedicated to bring a little organization to the way we run these sessions. Those of you who used to appreciate my nanny text messages reading, “I just got peed on,” or “I have poo on my shirt,” or “The clerk at the grocery just pointed out to me that there is vomit in my hair,” will be happy to know that all of those things are still happening. Babies here don’t wear real diapers but usually just a piece of folded cloth with the absorbency of a dinner napkin. In the course of weighing thirty or forty babies, there’s almost always at least one accident. While I can’t afford to send mass overseas text messages, you can just giggle to yourselves virtually any Monday or Wednesday morning a know that I have been dampened by some small person’s urine. The difference is that now I get to do the laundry by hand. Fun.<br /><br />I have also started teaching classes at my local middle school, and one of the great cross cultural lessons I’m learning is that middle schoolers are a challenge in any culture, but things are going relatively well in this department as well. I teach there Monday and Wednesday afternoons and Tuesday mornings, and I have a lot of freedom about what I teach. When I started, there seemed to be a lot of enthusiasm in my community about HIV/AIDS, so I began there, and I feel like we are making some progress on it. The hard part has been trying to remember that there isn’t a lot of knowledge I can take for granted. A couple of weeks ago, I spent several hours getting together a lesson about STIs. It covered all the major infections facing Togo, and I even included a review game at the end, which is always a hit. So I gave the whole lesson, and they seemed as attentive as one can ever expect seventh graders to be, but when the game started, they were supposed to race to match the symptoms with the diseases that cause them. I said go, and everyone just stood there. Then they asked me what a symptom is. We had to start over from the beginning.<br /><br />Another thing I do is go to meetings with my ASCs (stands for Community Health Agent in French). This is usually pretty fun, as I am lucky to have a lot of dedicated people in my community, but it also requires some adjustments from me. For example, a couple of Fridays ago, we had a meeting at 8am. I had some notes I wanted to go over with the employees at the clinic, so I got there around 7:30 just to iron out exctly what was on the agenda. Of course, I was running a few minutes late, and I was worried there wouldn’t be enough time before the meeting started to get everything done. No such worries.. The first person didn’t show up until about nine, and by ten, we had nearly half of our attendees. Now, most of you know that I am not one to throw stones about punctuality, but this seemed ridiculous even to me. Finally I asked where everyone else was, and it turned out they were all in the market having a morning calabash of tchouk. Excellent. Once everyone was successfully rounded up, the meeting went really well, but I’m definitely going to have to adjust my expectations on this front. Yes, I hear all of you laughing. And you’re right, karma is a drag.Fu Fu Louhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16285965959861195438noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5328460884384505548.post-29931633742967219812009-12-22T05:49:00.000-08:002009-12-22T05:51:51.690-08:00Bean Cakes for BreakfastOnce again, it’s been some time since I’ve been able to update this blog, so I ask your forgiveness. In the past few weeks, we have welcomed some new volunteers to our region and said farewell to some others who finished their service. I have begun some new work which is both challenging and rewarding, and I have survived my first illnesses as a Peace Corps Volunteer (super fun!). Also, I have begun to be efficient at killing the mice who are trying to take over my life. In short, a lot has been going on. As I get busier in my village, I find my time there more and more enjoyable. I’ve said before that virtually everyone I meet is friendly and helpful, and as I get to know these friends and neighbors better, I genuinely enjoy their company. Namon is beginning to feel like home for me.<br /><br />Despite all that, I still look forward to visiting other volunteers from time to time. Because there is no electricity or cell phone coverage in my village, I usually make my way to a nearby volunteer’s house once a week or so to make phone calls and recharge both my electronics and my personal energy. These are great times to relax a little bit, hear about other people’s work and ask for help with my own, and speak English! For the moment, my closest two volunteers are 27km and 39km away (in opposite directions), which is longer than it sounds like given the condition of the roads, so more often than not, I spend the night when I make these visits. The idea is to take advantage of the electricity, hang out with some people, and head back to work the next morning. <br /><br />In my village, I find myself going to bed pretty early because there’s only so much you can find to do after the sun sets at six o’clock. When I visit other people, however, the electricity is so miraculous to me that I find myself staying up as late as midnight working on my computer and making phone calls (crazy night life, I know). Many of you will also remember that I am not at my personal best early in the morning, so it’s also a nice chance to reclaim my old life by sleeping in a bit. This is great except for two things: the call to prayer and bean cakes.<br /><br />The part of Togo where I am is largely Muslim, and I am enjoying learning about a religion and culture I didn’t understand well when I came. People are very open to explaining their beliefs and customs to me, and I am learning a lot. One of the thing I learned is that there is a call to prayer several times a day, and I like that I’m beginning to understand how that is structured. What I do not like is that the first one is at 4:30am. In my village, someone just stands outside the mosque and cries out that the prayer is about to begin, but I can’t hear it from my house. In cities with electricity, however, there are loudspeakers. I am beginning to hate loudspeakers. There is a cry loud enough to wake the dead and more importantly, me. Three times for several minutes each between 4:30 and 5:00am. This does no wonders for my beauty rest, and I am beginning to see the benefits of an electricity free lifestyle. <br /><br />After the call to prayer stops, since I don’t have work in these villages, it’s usually possible to go back to sleep for an hour or two, which is blissful. Except at my friend M’s house. At his house, the call to prayer is followed by his neighbor screaming at the top of her voice. At first I thought something might be wrong, but M explained that she is screaming at the top of her lungs in local language, “I HAVE BEAN CAKES!” I asked why she does this, assuming that it was more than her joy over her breakfast selection. As it turns out, she sells the bean cakes to people who are on their way to work, school, the market, or their fields, which is fairly standard, but rather than selling them on the road where people will see her, she just cooks them at her house and periodically screams out that the bean cakes are there for the desirous. Somehow, this seems to work. <br /><br />Which leads me to my new idea. I think when I get back to the US, I’m going to open an advertising firm. We won’t use any radio spots or television commercials. There will be no ads in magazines, no promotional offers, no posters, billboards, slogans, or signs. I’m simply going to hire people to walk around screaming about my clients’ products. Something along the lines of, “GEICO HAS CAR INSURANCE!” or “BUDWEISER MAKES BEER!” Given my experience here, I can see no way in which this business plan could fail. Plus, I know how much people will appreciate it. I think nothing will endear our products to the general public as much as someone screaming about them at sunrise. I’m going to make a killing. Interested investors can send cash any time.Fu Fu Louhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16285965959861195438noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5328460884384505548.post-54131817995928264032009-10-31T07:41:00.000-07:002009-12-18T05:36:30.729-08:00Du CourageFriends, I am sorry to say that I have failed to bring the right key to the internet today, so my blog posts remain in Namon. I promise to post real updates next week.<br /><br />For today, I will just send my warmest wishes (and they are very warm--it is near 100 degrees today) to my dear friend Gail. I know she will remember that with her pearls and winning smile, she cannot fail. There is nothing the Ladies' Auxiliary can't pull off when we, as our charter prescribes, "get some girls on this."Fu Fu Louhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16285965959861195438noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5328460884384505548.post-79007501176040312012009-10-16T13:33:00.002-07:002009-10-16T13:35:13.858-07:00Notes of ImportanceA belated happy birthday to Marie H. whose age I will not disclose. I’m sure the party was smaller this year but just as much fun and hopefully didn’t involve anyone’s car breaking down on Lakeshore Drive.<br /><br />My friend Margaret turned nine a couple of weeks ago. A blossoming artist, author, and storyteller, I think she will begin her memoirs soon. Happy birthday, M.<br /><br />My cousins Kate and Will both had birthdays. I hope you celebrated by sneaking Will into the Backer for a Dobs.<br /><br />My baby brother Mark turned 20. Every birthday I think about how I cried the night he was born (I was really hoping for a sister), but since then, I’ve mostly gotten used to him. Hope it was great, bro.<br /><br />My sister Jenny turned THIRTY just a couple of days ago, and I hear it was a wild time. Festivities lasted until nearly 9pm.<br /><br />Finally, my dad will be 53 next week. Remember, Padre, all you ever need for a great party is a Growler and the Hat Game.<br /><br />Several people have asked about my new address, so I’ll share that with you here. Anything sent to the address in Lome will still arrive, but we opened a PO Box a little closer to my post, which is supposed to be more reliable. Letters in regular envelopes don’t seem to have a fantastic success rate, but if you spring for a padded envelope, it gets her just about every time. Theft can be a problem, so whatever you do, write something terribly boring on the customs form.<br /><br />PCV Emily Pike<br />BP 12<br />Guerin-Kouka<br />Togo, West Africa<br /><br />I have been hoping for awhile to be able to post some pictures on this blog, but so far, the internet hasn’t really been fast enough. If I had been able to, you would see that my house is shaping up quite nicely but is sadly lacking in decoration. Consider this my official plea for artwork to all my youngest friends in South Bend, Mishawaka, New Castle, Bardstown, Bloomington, London, Amsterdam, and yes, even the one left in Mitchell. Special thanks go out to TC and Flounder whose works already grace my walls.Fu Fu Louhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16285965959861195438noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5328460884384505548.post-29708822813093380322009-10-16T13:33:00.001-07:002009-10-16T13:33:51.074-07:00I Am Very ImpressiveThere is a little something that’s been bothering me for awhile now. It’s one of those things that started out as not a big deal but the more I think about it, the more it gets to me. I’d like to take this moment to get if off my chest.<br /><br />It all started a few weeks ago when I was at our clinic’s weekly foyer for malnourished children. We were particularly swamped, so I found myself doing some tasks on my own which I hadn’t really done before. It was nothing too terrible, things like mixing the flour, sugar, and oil in the correct proportions and making sure that each person (we give the flour to the elderly as well, but the mix is different) got the appropriate nutritional boost. Most of the mother’s get two kilos of a corn/soy blend flour mixed with sugar and oil. Because of language difficulties, most of my communication with the women at these sessions is conducted through pointing at their babies and smiling. Anyway, there was one woman who, after having received her two kilos, remained standing in front of me with her sack out. It’s not entirely uncommon for a woman to try and sneak extra flour, but we pretty well have to stick to the rules to make sure everyone gets some, so I gestured her away and gently pushed her bag aside. She began speaking to me quickly and insistently in Konkomba. I tried to make it clear that I didn’t understand as she was becoming more and more wrapped up in whatever she was trying to tell me. Finally, someone explained to me that the woman had twins and was therefore entitled to four kilos of flour. Happy to have the miscommunication cleared up and eager to make friends with the woman, I quickly picked up her sack and pointing to it, repeated loudly some of the words I realized she had been saying. “Uba, bilee,” I began, indicating the sack, and adding two more kilos, I continued, “bitaa, binaa!” Everyone in the area stopped what they were doing and broke into loud applause. My homologue, the birth attendant, rushed over and actually held my arms in the air as if I had kicked the winning goal in the World Cup. “My girl is magnificent!” she shouted in French, “Again, again!” With more confidence this time, I shouted, “Uba, bilee, bitaa, binaa!” The crowd went wild. I had, of course, counted to four, and this was very impressive.<br /><br />The second event occurred just a couple of days later. The wife of the chief had asked me to help her sell tchouk (a sort of local beer made from millet) at the market. This was a big event for the people in Namon, and many stopped by to buy her goods from the new white woman in town. (I tend to be something of a side show.) Before we started, there was a brief tutorial on the pricing and etiquette. You server tchouk in a calabash from a plastic trash can with a small plastic bowl. There are two sizes of plastic bowls, the smaller of which costs 25 CFA and the larger 50. It was simple enough. All you have to do is ask the person how much they want and serve it to them. You also need to add a little at the end as a cadeau. This is expected with most things you buy. After a practice run with the matron, I was let to serve folks all on my own. The first guy was simple. He wanted 50 CFA worth of tchouk, and he paid with exact change. Nevertheless, this earned a murmur of approval from the audience. The next guy also wanted 50 CFA, but he paid with a 100 CFA coin. My fans held their breath. I successfully handed him the 50 CFA coin I had received from the previous customer. Again, there was approval, but my audience now wanted to test my abilities a bit. There came cries of, “Can you make change for this 2,000 CFA bill?” I did. Someone ordered 100 CFA of tchouk to try my skills with the small plastic bowls. Someone wanted 75 CFA of boisson and then paid with 150 CFA just to throw me off. With every challenge, I rose to the occasion. That’s right, my friends, I can perform simple arithmetic in another currency. I had taken the market by storm, and the applause was immense.<br /><br />Those are just two examples, but I could go on and on. People are pleased and impressed when I successfully greet them in the morning. They’re even pleased when I just try hard. They’re pleased when I tell them I can make my own tea and peel an orange and differentiate between corn and soy beans.<br /><br />All this brings me to my real point which is that I am, in fact, very impressive, and I’m not sure that those of you back in the States realize this. I can’t remember the last time one of you applauded when I counted to four, and I’m sure none of you has ever praised my orange peeling ability. I want you all to know that I forgive you for these oversights, but in the future, I would appreciate it if I could get a little recognition when I make change for a dollar, that’s all.Fu Fu Louhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16285965959861195438noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5328460884384505548.post-54818777479077130562009-10-16T12:11:00.000-07:002009-10-16T12:13:26.595-07:00I Would Not, Could Not Eat a Cat...I would not, could not eat a bat<br />I will not have it on my plate<br />No, please don't tell me what I ate.<br /><br />That’s right friends, we have another tale of culinary cultural crossover! Some of you will recall hearing about the sad fate of my friend B during training. For the rest, I will summarize. One afternoon, as we were all heading off to a training session in the neighboring city, B’s host mother approached him and told him that she was going to prepare something special for dinner. His host father handed him a plastic bag and instructed him to open it. Inside was, of course, a dead cat. Nothing says “dinner party” like fried yams and cat brains. B was a really good sport about the whole thing and managed to eat two different feline themed meals before throwing in the towel, and the rest of us were treated to regular text message updates.<br /><br />Now, I must confess here that I mocked B quite a lot about the incident, in part because such a happening was one of my biggest fears for life with my host family. Most of you know that I am a not-so-strict vegetarian, and I explained this to my host family upon arrival. It took a lot of explaining (and a compromise on chicken bouillon cubes, which were a deal breaker for my host mom), but in the end, no meat of any kind ever found its way onto my plate. Refusing food here can be even more insulting than declining my grandmother’s ham and cheese ball at Christmas, and the last thing anyone wants on their hands is a host mother with injured pride. I considered myself very fortunate to have such an understanding one, and counted myself lucky to be mostly out of the woods once I made it through stage to my own house here at post, where I could cook and eat as I pleased.<br /><br />Of course, that’s about when karma kicked in to chastise me for my erstwhile schadenfreude. Though I am mostly free to cook and eat what I like (within the limited options available at my local market), I have made a few friends here who occasionally invite me to dinner at their homes. On these visits, I have explained my preference not to eat meat but have nonetheless, for the sake of politeness, consumed in one form or another chicken, beef, guinea fowl, and on one occasion, goat. This doesn’t particularly thrill me, but I am making slow progress at explaining my dietary preferences, and I have been known to make these kinds of exceptions in the States as well, hence my not-so-strict vegetarian status. When I was living at Dismas House, I partook of more than one donated turkey noodle casserole and a certain world famous peanut butter chicken gumbo.<br /><br />None of that had adequately prepared me for what happened about a week ago. The chief had invited me to dine at his house with the promise of beans and rice with a tomato sauce, one of my favorites, but on this auspicious occasion, he stopped me in the market around lunchtime and told me that he’d found something extra special for dinner that evening, something which he thought I had never tasted before. He was right because when I got to his house, he showed me a pot full of roasting bats. The bats were whole and had been roasted over a fire on a spit before stewing in a pot of spicy sauce. We were to eat them with fufu. Now, I am trying very hard here to be open to new cultural experiences, but I could feel every reflex in my body recoil at the site of a large bat with teeth grimacing up at me from my plate. On the other hand, he is the chief, and I didn’t really have a choice. Thankfully, I was not expected to eat the entire thing myself. As it turns out, bat is something of a delicacy, so, like a nice merlot or a large slice of chocolate cake, we would share one for the table. My host graciously offered me the head, but I was able to get by with tasting just a bite of rib meat. To answer the most obvious question, it wasn’t all that bad. It did, in fact, taste a lot like chicken. I console myself now with the thought that at least I can be sure the bat was free range and organic.Fu Fu Louhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16285965959861195438noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5328460884384505548.post-29339616342009257672009-10-16T12:10:00.000-07:002009-10-16T12:11:19.327-07:00Beware the Biking RatSo this story is a little dated, but I’ve been meaning to share it for some time now. As I’ve said, a lot of my time thus far has been devoted to getting to know the people in my village. Anywhere you work, it’s good to know the people around you, but especially in Togolaise society it is important to develop relationships if you want to get anything done. People here are incredibly welcoming of foreigners, and there always seems to be a family willing to extend hospitality, but becoming a credible source of information in the community requires a lot of effort to integrate oneself into the customs and culture of my new home. This means I spend a lot of time sitting around talking to people about nothing at all. Because of the language barrier, it also means I spend some time just sitting while other people are talking and I work on my comprehension skills.<br /><br />So anyway, one evening shortly after arriving in Namon, I was sitting and having a drink with some colleagues and friends in the local buvette, and the conversation turned to agricultural work. I had mostly been listening, but I am really interested in how people’s farms impact their schedules, so I asked some questions to better understand what an average day was like. They told me it varied a lot depending on the day, so I asked them, for example, to tell me what they did in the fields the day before. One man offered that he hadn’t gone to the fields the day before, and another seconded him. Going around the room, it became clear that virtually no one had gone to the fields that day. I asked if there was something important going on in the village that they didn’t want to miss or if it had been a holiday. They sort of talked among themselves and collectively agreed that the majority of them hadn’t gone because of the Rat. When I asked what precisely the rat problem was, they told me a most amazing story.<br /><br />It seems that two days before, a rat had been seen riding into town on a red bicycle. At this point, I had to stop the conversation to work out some vocabulary, but the word “rat” in French really does mean rat. (“Like a mouse but bigger?” I clarified. “Yes, yes, it eats the corn if you don’t protect it. It has a long tail,” they affirmed.) Okay, so it was a rat but I wondered how it was riding the bicycle. The told me that obviously a normal rat couldn’t ride a bicycle, but this one was much larger than usual, the size of a short man. (At this point, I have a sort of Ralph S. Mouse picture in my head.) Okay, anthropomorphic mouse on a bicycle. I was up to speed. They told me that the rat had delivered a message that people should not go to work in the fields the following day. Those who did go would have very bad luck. It had, they told me, been an omen (which I was fortunately able to have someone translate). A survey of the room revealed that no one present had personally seen the rat, but that was because as soon as he delivered his message, he disappeared. The disappearing, incidentally, is how you can tell something is really a messenger from the spirits. If it hadn’t been a real messenger, it wouldn’t have been able to do that, a proof whose logic is hard to deny.<br /><br />I’ve spent some time in the past few weeks talking all this over with my fellow volunteers to see whether they had any insight into the cycling rodent phenomenon, but we didn’t come up with anything specific. They reminded me that Togo has a rich tradition of storytelling, and often stories have other meanings, cues that are familiar to local listeners. We talked about the presence of animism and how it can be a part of people’s lives even if they don’t really practice it. We talked about the lengths people in any culture will go to in order to get a vacation day. In the end, I can really only say that I have no clue what this meant, but it made me laugh a lot. It also gave me some good ideas, and I think in my next job, I’m going to try something like, “Yes, I know I’m out of personal days, but I ran into a cockroach driving a Mini Cooper, and he had something to say about working on Friday afternoons…”Fu Fu Louhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16285965959861195438noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5328460884384505548.post-49900427817651515912009-09-19T10:20:00.000-07:002009-09-19T10:25:16.229-07:00Aunty EmYesterday, I got the most exciting news I’ve heard since I got to Togo. And since a long time before that. My sister Jenny gave birth to a perfect baby girl named Eleanor Abby. I just got to see the pictures, and she is completely wonderful. She came just a few hours too early to be a present to Christi, but I’m willing to bet the birthday was still among the best ever.<br /><br />Congratulations, Jenny and Zach, and welcome, Nory. I can’t wait to meet you.Fu Fu Louhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16285965959861195438noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5328460884384505548.post-12158474426252904002009-09-19T09:40:00.001-07:002009-12-18T05:29:49.347-08:00Language Barriers and Loose WomenI should begin this post by saying that the vast majority of Peace Corps Volunteers do not become involved in romantic relationships with host country nationals. For the most part, people find that the cultural differences and the potential for such relationships to undermine the work we do combine to make the idea impractical. There are a few volunteers, however, who end up dating and even marrying people from their country of service, and it seems like everyone in every village has heard a story like that. For this reason, many volunteers, especially women, have to work hard to avoid the appearance of entertaining romantic advances from men at their posts, and many end up telling people that they are, in fact, already married, which only sometimes helps to reduce said advances. Unfortunately, the way the Togolaise dating scene works can make it feel like the cards are stacked against us in this regard, but we do the best we can. It is important to have this background information in order to understand why my chief might think I’m a prostitute.<br /><br />As I mentioned in an earlier blog entry, I was given a Konkomba name that didn’t precisely thrill me, so when I returned to village after swear in, one of the things high on my list of priorities was to ask my chief to “baptize” me with a new name. I decided to broach the topic over dinner at his house. At several points during the conversation he told me that if there was anything I needed from him, I should just ask, so I did. The conversation went something like this:<br /><br />Me: “Actually, Chief, there is something for which I want to ask you.”<br />Chief: “Of course, what do you want?”<br />Me: “I am hoping to have a Konkomba name.”<br />Chief: ::Pause:: “I don’t understand.”<br />Me: “Well, I have an American name, but that is hard for the people to understand. I believe I can be better integrated if I have a Konkomba name.”<br />Chief: “Oh! You want me to find a man to teach you Konkomba! Yes, I spoke with someone who will be good.”<br />Me: “No, well, yes, I want that, too, and for this I am grateful, but what I was asking for was a name.”<br />Chief: “I was thinking you already have a name in America.”<br />Me: “I do, but I would like a Konkomba name, too.”<br />Chief: “You wish to marry someone from Namon?”<br />Me: “No, I just want a name.”<br />Chief: “You want a name here in addition to your name in America.”<br />Me: “Yes.”<br />Chief: “But you don’t want to take the name back with you when you leave.”<br />Me: “Well, I don’t believe that matters, really. I just want a name to have and to use while I am here.”<br />Chief: “I see. I don’t know, but I will think about it.”<br />Me: “Okay, maybe it is a serious matter. I am not in a hurry.”<br />Chief: “What sort of name are you looking for?”<br />Me: “It doesn’t matter as long as it is Konkomba. It is simply that the name which my homologue gave me means that I am a stranger, and because I will be here for two years, I do not want to be a stranger. I to be a part of the community with a Konkomba name like the rest of the people.”<br />Chief: “I see…”<br />::Awkward silence, during which I feel I should make things easier for him::<br />Me: “You see, my friend who lives nearby is called Matt in America but in his village the people call him Tchapo. My other friend is called Kassie at home, but here she calls herself Ninko. Or David is called both David and Kondi. Do you understand? In America, I am known as Emily, but I would like the people here to call me a name in the local language like my friends, the other volunteers.”<br /><br />At this point, the chief’s wife came over and clarified the point which had been the issue between the chief and me. The thing is that in French, for name, you say un nom. Unfortunately for me, to say man, you say un homme. The h is silent in homme, so the only difference between the pronunciation of the two is that in nom you don’t sort of swallow and don’t really pronounce the m, but in homme, you do. So when the chief’s wife came over and said, “She wants you to give her a NAME,” I was mortified to realize I had asked the chief several times and in no uncertain terms for a Konkomba man. That’s right, every time I thought I said name, I said man, so not only did I want a Konkomba man, I wanted him in addition to my man at home, and I didn’t really care much about the specifics of him because I only wanted to use him while I was here and not marry him. This was, I think, a pretty auspicious beginning of my relationship with the most important official in my village. Thankfully, the chief’s wife was able to clear up the misunderstanding with little trouble, and it was dark, so I think the chief probably couldn’t see how completely embarrassed I was. In the weeks since then, I have been trying to dedicate a little more time to practicing good French pronunciation. I’m not sure how many more misunderstandings my reputation can take.Fu Fu Louhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16285965959861195438noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5328460884384505548.post-49515268892044534142009-08-28T07:00:00.000-07:002009-08-28T10:19:12.318-07:00Slightly Behind Schedule, Comme Mon HabitudeOkay, friends, I am very sorry to be late in posting most of these good wishes, but getting the internet in Togo is like trying to glean news of the wizarding world during a summer with the Dursleys. Know that I was thinking good things on the appropriate day.<br /><br />Congratulations to Carl L., who finished his ACE program. Whatever will you do with all the free time?<br /><br />Happy Birthday to Michael, who turned seven. First grade is going to be awesome.<br /><br />Duncan, enjoy nine. It's your last year to have sole right to the front seat.<br /><br />John C., I know the party couldn't have been fun without me there to give you inappropriate cards in front of Nana, but I hope you struggled through.<br /><br />Liam, if you tell girls it's your birthday, they will think you are even cooler.<br /><br />Seth, if you tell girls it's your birthday, they will still not think you are cool, but you might get a pity kiss.<br /><br />Calvin, Annie, and John are all two years old within three weeks of each other. Happy birthday to my three favorite not-quite-babies-anymore.<br /><br />Now, working in advance, an early happy birthday to Gracie, Lauren, Karen, and Kathy SC. I hope your parties are all awesome and involve running water.<br /><br />Also, an early happy birthday to my Flounder who will turn six next week and who started Kindergarten just a few days ago. Big day.<br /><br />Finally, a big congratulations to Teresa and Joe M. on their new son Luke James. I can't wait to see pictures.Fu Fu Louhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16285965959861195438noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5328460884384505548.post-34428274550976578262009-08-28T06:58:00.000-07:002009-08-28T06:59:35.682-07:00It's the Little ThingsSo after posting about attending a birth, it’s hard to think anything else will be very interesting, but several people have asked me about my house and things like that, so I’ll try to give you an idea of my living situation. I have a house with two rooms, each about ten by twelve feet. Right now, there is nothing in it except my bike, but I ordered some furniture during my visit, so I’m hoping it will be ready by the time I get back. One room will be for sitting and cooking, and the other will be my bedroom. A fun fact about the place is that the doorways are about five feet tall, so I have a lovely bruise on my face from running into them. Several times. When I worked at Just Goods, we had these really cute West African dresses, and it seemed like every woman who came in tried them on, but no one ever bought them. My boss and I thought this was really weird, so one slow Tuesday, I tried one on, and we realized that they were made for someone who was four and a half feet tall. I’m slowly realizing that they were made for the women of Togo. Every time I walk into my house, I feel like Snow White.<br /><br />Another fun fact is that my latrine is not yet finished. Now, I hate to be picky about things, but this did present a bit of a problem. I am not above peeing in the shower (a concrete slab and a bucket outside), but eventually I knew I was going to have to find a place to poo. Fortunately for me, on my second day in village, two nearby volunteers came to welcome me, and the first thing they said was, “Your latrine isn’t finished. Where are you pooping?!” I told you, talking about poop is something volunteers seem to love. I told them I hadn’t yet, and they said they would come up with a solution for me. This was welcome news, and I figured they would find a neighbor whose latrine I could share for the week, so when they walked around my house once and came back, I was surprised that the solution had come so quickly. Of course, the solution was not quite what I had expected. They said, “Wait until night and use your head torch dig a hole behind your house. Then, turn off the light and poop in the hole, and use your light again to fill in the hole.” I said, “I am SO in the Peace Corps right now.”<br /><br />Also fun is the lack of cell phone reception. If I walk about fifteen minutes out of town to the middle school, I can kind of find it sometimes, but it’s sketchy. My nearest internet is in Kara, which is one of the biggest cities in Togo and is about 70k from me. Now, I know that sounds like a forty-five minute car ride, but trust me, it isn’t. You have to find a car leaving my village (which is possible two days a week) going to a nearby village, where you have to get out and find another car going to Kara. Once you find the car, you have to find a way to sit down inside it. This is harder than it sounds because a van made to hold eight people usually has something closer to twelve adults, ten children, a few fifty pound bags of charcoal and several goats and chickens. This is not an exaggeration. One woman had a puppy in a plastic bag, and another woman vomited into her hand and wiped it on my friend’s shirt. It’s also something close to six thousand degrees inside the car, and the roads are worse than on The Island Which Must Not Be Named (Sicily, for anyone who is not Ian). All told, it’s a lot what I imagine the womb must be like. With a Siamese twin. I sent a request to the med unit for more nausea medication. And some Valium.Fu Fu Louhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16285965959861195438noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5328460884384505548.post-30238121736203346912009-08-28T06:55:00.000-07:002009-08-28T06:56:10.363-07:00Mini MeIt’s been awhile since I’ve been able to get to the internets, so my apologies for the datedness of these posts, but about five weeks ago, I got to spend a week in Namon, which will by my home for the next two years. I feels like I met just about everyone in the village. Of course, I can’t really remember any names. I hope that will come. Actually, remembering names became a bit of an issue as one of Togolaise people’s favorite things to do is give you a new name in their local language, and despite being told several times, I could never quite call my new name to mind when meeting people. I can’t tell you how embarrassing it is to have to lean over to the person beside you and whisper furtively, “What’s my name again?” I feel like an amnesiac soap opera character. The name is Opicha, which roughly translates to “newest wife in the family.” Given the delicacy of cross cultural attitudes surrounding marriage, it was difficult for me to express my distaste at this christening, but I was less than thrilled. My hope is that everyone else will have as much trouble remembering it as I did, and they’ll just give me a new one when I get back. Until then, I think I’ll just pretend not to know people are talking to me. That should work.<br /><br />Aside from eating several meals a day at various people’s houses, which, in addition to drinking a lot of tchouk, took up a large part of each day, I did begin to do some actual work. My homologue is a midwife, so I went with her to the dispensaire (sort of like a clinic) to help with the baby weighing they do every Monday. This was interesting not only for purposes of understanding the system I will be a part of but also in gaining insight into the expectations of my homologue, who kept saying things like, “On Thursdays, we do vaccinations. You can start administering those right away, but it will be a few weeks before you are ready to deliver a baby.” Despite having been told by Peace Corps (and, repeatedly, me) that I have absolutely no medical training, she seems to believe that I am a kind of apprentice for her and should therefore leave with a comfortable knowledge of how to perform minor surgeries. This should be no problem what with my BA in English and Gender Studies.<br /><br />The first day went smoothly enough. I helped weigh and measure all of the babies and give out enriched flour to the ones who were malnourished. Despite the fact that they do this once a week, the process is far from efficient, so there is a lot of standing around listening to crying babies, but I think it really went as well as could be expected. The second day, however, we were doing prenatal visits. This mostly involves weighing each woman, measuring her stomach, and listening for the baby’s heartbeat. I knew we had twenty visits scheduled for that day, so when I got to there, I was surprised to find no one waiting. I sat looking at the clinic’s records for nearly an hour, and no one showed up. I asked my homologue why no one was coming, and she looked at me like I was an idiot and said, “It’s raining.” Ah, yes. I mean, it wasn’t really raining, but it was certainly cloudy, and there was a drizzle from time to time. Clearly, one shouldn’t venture out of doors. I think Namon is the anti-London.<br /><br />Shortly after that, a young woman did arrive, and my homologue came to get me. She said, “Come quickly. She’s going to give birth, and you can watch.” I felt a little bit of uneasiness for the woman’s privacy, but I went and kind of stood in the corner. This would not do for my homologue. She made me come stand right next to her, saying, “How will you know how to do a birth if you don’t watch properly?” I said, “I am not a doctor. I will not be birthing babies..” She said, “Put your hand inside, and you can feel the head.” I told her that under no circumstances would I be putting my hand in another woman’s vagina against her will. She sighed resignedly. And then it happened. After about ten minutes of labor, the woman gave birth. Apparently, there is a local belief that if you scream during labor, it will alert the evil spirits that there is a vulnerable baby, but if you can keep quiet, they won’t know what’s going on, and the baby will be safe. The woman never made a sound. When the baby was born, my homologue handed her to me while she cut the umbilical cord, and I wrapped her up in a cloth. Then they named the baby Emily. It was unreal.Fu Fu Louhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16285965959861195438noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5328460884384505548.post-13527817568082343152009-08-28T06:47:00.001-07:002009-08-28T06:52:42.225-07:00The New Andy McShane in My LifeWell, it was only a matter of time. Those of you who are familiar with the Notre Dame Liturgical Choir know just how much time of my life it consumed during my undergraduate career. I think my friend Maureen put it best when she said, “Singing with the choir is great…as long as you’re ready for it to be your only extra-curricular activity...no, really, the only one.” As a result, a lot of the stories I find myself telling these days begin, “One time, on choir tour…” a commencement only slightly less nerdy than band camp. So when my friend Katie’s host mother recruited her to sing on Sunday mornings at the Catholic church in town, Katie immediately came to me and demanded my support in this endeavor.<br /><br />I know I have told some of you about church here, so you’ll have to forgive me for repeating myself, but it really is something. When I arrived, one of the first questions my host family asked me was whether I was Catholic. If I had know the consequences of answering that question honestly, I would almost certainly have lied. The first Saturday night, the conversation with my host mother went something like this. “Emily, tomorrow is the day of church, so it will not be necessary for you to sleep and sleep in the morning, as is your habit.” At this point, I had once slept as late as 6:15. For someone who used regularly to complain about 10am mass, this was unwelcome news. Mass was to begin at 6:30, so we needed to be dressed, fed, and ready to leave by 6:10. Ever the model of cultural exchange, I assured her that this wouldn’t be a problem, and I presented myself, dressed in my Sunday best promptly at 6:20. No one else was dressed, and no one was hurrying. (These are my kind of people.) We finally left the house at about 7:00 and made it to church in time for the second reading. This should have been my first hint that mass in Africa is not determined by a fifty-nine minute digital clock. Mass would take roughly three hours. This wouldn’t have been so bad, given the expanse of unplanned Sunday time, but the entire mass was in Ewe, the local language. After ten weeks in this village, I can understand Good morning, Good afternoon, I will see you tomorrow, See you soon, Goat, Sheep, Bicycle, Notebook, Hair, School, and the ever popular, “I haven’t seen you since yesterday. I am glad you woke up this morning,” which actually is how most people greet one another here. While a good start, these proficiencies don’t tend to allow me to fully follow the service. Someone pointed out to me that this is how people must have felt when mass was in Latin.<br /><br />After my first experience, it occurred to me that my Sunday mornings might be best spend NOT sleeping in the back pew and making mental to-do lists, but when I raised the idea of opting out, my host mother informed me that not only she but also Jesus himself would see that I hadn’t gone, and they both would be deeply saddened. Skipping was not an option. Given all that, the possibility of singing with the choir seemed like a good idea. At least it would give me something to focus on. The swaying here is, in itself, an art that will take me some time to master. So I went to the rehearsal which began promptly fifteen minutes behind schedule, and though there were plenty of differences from the choral singing in my past, it was comforting to know that some things are true across cultures. There were not enough men to balance the women, the sopranos had a sense of superiority though they were slightly flat most of the time, and the sopranos and altos were constantly blaming one another for sections which did not go smoothly, and there was no sharing music (though this was, of course, because there was no written music at all). Given all that (and the double language barrier), Katie and I spent most of the time humming and perfecting the integral sway/clap motion. Fortunately for us, the offertory hymn, “Joy to the World,” was familiar (if slightly out of place in July), so we were mostly able to keep up on at least one piece. This anomaly, coupled with being slightly behind and whispering in the back made me feel right at home. The best part for me, however, was that the director, when speaking to an audience of Ewe people in a French speaking country began each piece with “One, two, GO!” which really isn’t all that different from “bah, tih, tah, TYA!” Good times.Fu Fu Louhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16285965959861195438noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5328460884384505548.post-33823048804381733782009-08-08T09:13:00.000-07:002009-08-08T09:17:32.844-07:00Congratulations Grammy and Papa!Today my grandparents are celebrating their 50th wedding anniversary. I wish I could be there, but know that I love you both and that you are in my thoughts. Thanks for being so wonderful.<div><br /></div><div>The internet has been sketchy, but I promise real posts soon. </div>Fu Fu Louhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16285965959861195438noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5328460884384505548.post-90429910104401050492009-07-17T06:51:00.001-07:002009-07-17T07:02:06.904-07:00Happy Birthday!<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">So</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">it</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">has</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">been</span> a <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">busy</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">week</span> for <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">birthdays</span>. I <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">still</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">don't</span> have a phone, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">so</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">this</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">is</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">the</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13">best</span> I <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_14">can</span> do <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_15">by</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_16">way</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_17">of</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_18">felicitations</span>.<br /><br /><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_19">Cheri: I heard the party was a great time. Sorry I missed it. For a present, I promise to post an update as soon as I get my first Togolaise haircut.</span><br /><span class="blsp-spelling-error"></span><br /><span class="blsp-spelling-error">Theresa</span>: I <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_20">hope</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_21">it</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_22">was</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_23">great</span> and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_24">that</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_25">you</span> are <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_26">enjoying</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_27">your</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_28">last</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_29">few</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_30">weeks</span> in <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_31">Roma</span>. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_32">Twenty-six</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_33">is</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_34">nowhere</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_35">near</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_36">thirty!</span><br /><span class="blsp-spelling-error"></span><br /><span class="blsp-spelling-error">Allison: Just be glad Carl lives in another state now, so you don't have to share.</span><br /><span class="blsp-spelling-error"></span><br /><span class="blsp-spelling-error">Eric: Your birthday is not quite here, but this is my pre-emptive strike because I am going to post tomorrow, and I don't know when I can update again. All this time in French class here reminds me of you and Mr. Giggy. It was more fun with you.</span><br /><span class="blsp-spelling-error"></span><br /><span class="blsp-spelling-error">Carl: Last but not least, my brother is 27 yesterday, and if I'm not mistaken he is on his first tour right now. You can find Carl Pike on myspace. It is nearly all I listen to, and that's only partly because it is the only music on my computer. Congrats, bro, the new HP is the best gift anyone could ask for.</span><br /><span class="blsp-spelling-error"></span><br /><span class="blsp-spelling-error"></span>Fu Fu Louhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16285965959861195438noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5328460884384505548.post-47499418149056750092009-07-17T06:48:00.000-07:002009-07-17T06:51:26.167-07:00We Didn’t Start the Fire…Or At Least I Didn’t, But It Wasn’t Because I Didn’t Try (July 11)A warning: the more earth friendly among you may find this entry disturbing. If you find descriptions of your friends performing environmentally unsavory acts unpleasing, you may want to avert your eyes for the following paragraphs.<br /><br /> Okay, that’s only kind of a joke. Many of you know that I was far from the greenest person you know when I was living in the US, but I did my best. I could never quite escape my addiction to giant Diet Cokes and chocolate chip cookies from McDonald’s. (It is, after all, the perfect snack for only $1.49.) I did, however, make and effort to show a little love to our Earth. We do only get one, so as Brian Gurley would say, I appreciate things like NOT plastic bags. Plus, being green is kind of a little cool in the US, and I am nothing if not kind of a little cool. I mean, even my parents recycle these days.<br /><br /> Well, the green wave has not yet hit Togo. Here, everything you’d ever want to buy and a lot of things you don’t come in little black plastic bags. When you are finished with whatever was in the bag (likely more bags), you have two options: you can throw it on the ground where you stand (the more popular choice) or you can take it home to throw it away in your trash can. Of course, if you are me, you are likely to realize that you have been exercising option two for three weeks or so, and the weekly collection doesn’t seem to be happening, so there is a moderately sized mound forming in the corner of your room. What does one do with said mound? Easy. You burn it. <br /><br /> Now, while I didn’t find this practice particularly appealing at first, I figured there are really only so many battles a person can fight at once. If I’m going to fight the family planning and nutrition battles, I might just have to leave the burning plastic and Styrofoam fight for the next guy. And, I cannot lie; part of me expected to feel a certain liberation in watching everything I didn’t want anymore going up in smoke, in being decidedly un-green. SPOILER ALERT. This dream did not come to fruition. <br /><br /> The truth is I have been nervous about burning my trash since I got here. They told us that trash is a very personal thing here, so you should try to burn it in private. I live in a host family with seven other people, so privacy is not really a possibility, but earlier this week, my host parents were away for a couple of hours, so it was just me, three of my sisters and my niece at home. I don’t know how much more private it gets. I asked my 14 year old sister where the family burned their trash, and she immediately became interested. This was unfortunate for my privacy wish but what can you do? Visitor trash is big news in my little village, and it quickly became a family affair. We carefully covered everything with the kerosene I had purchased that morning, and I lit a match. We all watched in anticipation as nothing happened. The match just went out. I lit another match. Nothing. More kerosene and six more matches later, still nothing. At this point, my host sister picked up the bottle of kerosene and smelled it. Then, to my horror, she took a drink and proclaimed it not kerosene at all but “bizarre water.”<br /><br /> My sisters were livid. I told them that I had just purchased the kerosene in town, and they couldn’t believe the vendor would take advantage of a visitor. In a matter of seconds everybody, including the baby, was ready for a showdown downtown. Fortunately, I had a moment of insight. I picked up the kerosene and tasted it to discover that it was, in fact, neither kerosene but Crystal Lite Peach Mango Green Tea, which I had mixed up after lunch to help mask the bleach in my water. Tasty. I meekly called off the confrontation and produced the actual kerosene, which, in my defense, looked exactly the same. (They are both stored in a big used water bottle.) I think my family cannot believe how completely inept I am. <br /><br /> So we took a second stab at burning everything, which proved even more difficult now that I had doused everything in water, but the six year old had fun lighting match after match in the attempt. (It is okay to let Kindergarteners play with matches here because even they can burn their own trash without incident.) The whole affair wasn’t finished for two hours, giving the rest of the family plenty of time to come home and laugh at me. At least they still find me entertaining. At post, I think I’ll just bury my trash. In the meantime, I’m coloring the kerosene bottle red.<br /><br />To my family:<br /><br />Have a great vacation. I wish I could be with you, but I am thinking about all of you, and I love you very much!Fu Fu Louhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16285965959861195438noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5328460884384505548.post-55874136323612739192009-07-11T07:58:00.001-07:002009-07-11T07:59:35.190-07:00Fu Fu Louhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16285965959861195438noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5328460884384505548.post-58154954536996428642009-07-05T03:39:00.000-07:002009-07-05T03:40:36.239-07:00Fourth of JulyToday, we are having a big party with my whole stage. It’s going to be super awesome, and I get to cook for the first time since I’ve been here, but I will write about it another time. Today, I have only one message, and that is<br /><br />CONGRATULATIONS RACHEL AND BEN! <br /><br />My lovely cousin Rachel is getting married today, and I am not there, but I don’t need to be in Grand Rapids to know that she looks absolutely beautiful, and the day is perfect. I wish I could be there, Rach, but know you are in my thoughts. You can expect a lovely gift from Togo in roughly three months. They don’t call it snail mail for nothing.Fu Fu Louhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16285965959861195438noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5328460884384505548.post-56586733438537437122009-07-05T03:38:00.000-07:002009-07-05T03:39:24.526-07:00Namon Sweet Home (July 2)<br /><br /> After weeks of anticipation and days of endlessly discussing the pros and cons of each potential site, we finally received our post assignments this week. I’ll be heading to the northern half of Togo to a village called Namon. The bad news is that there is no real road that leads to the village, the average temperature during the dry season is 35 degrees Celsius, and three months of the year it is plagues by terrible dust storms. The good news is it will be far less humid. I’m really clinging to the humidity thing as my ray of hope. <br /><br /><br /> Seriously, I am very excited. The post will involve a lot of nutrition and family planning work. In the northern part of Togo, in particular, child nutrition is a huge problem, and there is plenty of opportunity to educate families on ways to get better nutrition from the food already available. Family planning is a problem for just about all of Togo. It is estimated that less than 10% of women use birth control on a regular basis, and a lack of spacing between births is the number one indicator of both infant and maternal mortality. Additionally, large family size contributes greatly to malnutrition, but just like in the US, it is a delicate issue for any number of religious and social reasons, so among a myriad of other things, I will be study how to tread lightly but still aim for efficacy. <br /><br /> Other fun facts include that Namon is home to between two and three thousand people, does not, of course, have electricity or running water, but it is only 20k from another volunteer who does have both. I’m not sure where I can get internet access, but the maximum distance is 70k which is completely doable a couple of times a month. Finally, I will definitely have cell phone reception, which is wonderful. (Or will be once I have a phone again. Many of you know that my phone broke a couple of weeks ago, and I am having trouble getting a new one.) If you Google Namon, I don’t think you’ll find anything, but it is 70k from Kara, which is a pretty big city, and if you are interested, it should be fairly easy to find on a map.<br /><br /> So two weeks from Saturday, I get to go for a visit. This should be a lot of fun because the site has had Peace Corps volunteers before, but they weren’t health volunteers, so I have the benefit of their being familiar with volunteers and what we do without the worry of trying to discover what the previous volunteer has already covered. I’m psyched. After the week long visit, I come back to our training site for four more weeks, and then on August 20th, I and my 24 fellow staigieres will be sworn in as Peace Corps Volunteers.Fu Fu Louhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16285965959861195438noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5328460884384505548.post-59466679296817046052009-07-05T03:33:00.000-07:002009-07-05T03:38:24.503-07:00Field TripFriends, it has been a busy week. After nearly four weeks of clamoring about how bored we are at our training site, Peace Corps let us have two outings in one week. It was amazing. The first was to a little village near the coast to see a latrine project. “Emily, what do you mean, latrine project?” you ask. Well, hygiene and sanitation are both a big part of what my job is here in Togo, and finding good ways to get rid of waste is a big part of hygiene and sanitation. One of the projects we are encouraged to do as Health Agents is to help our communities build latrines. When done correctly, they can prevent disease and provide a useful source of fertilizer for crops that are already scarce. I know it sounds gross to use your own poo to grow the food you’ll eat, but people who know about these things promise me that if you do it right, it’s completely safe and a completely smart use of resources. <br /><br /> Anyway, as with a lot of things in Togo, we got off to a late start because we had to wait for one of the teachers to arrive from Lome. (As Peter said, it is like everyone in Togo is on Emily time.) Once we did get on the road, it was quite an adventure. There has been an enormous amount of rain lately, and the roads showed it. We had to stop and get out of the car no fewer than three times to navigate the huge ruts, and once we all got to help push. It was actually a lot of fun except for the fact that I forgot to take any motion sickness medicine. I did not, however, throw up, and I am very proud of that fact. You have to cling to the small things, you know. <br /><br /> Once we got there, the presentation lasted much longer than we had anticipated, and afterward, in true Togolaise fashion, the women of the village insisted on feeding us. (In that way, Togo is not unlike the Midwest.) Long story short, we got home an hour and a half late, and all of our host families were quite worried. They construed this worry by insisting that we eat the lunch they had prepared in addition to the lunch we had just finished eating in village. <br /><br /> The next day, we got to go on a trip purely for pleasure. It was to beautiful lake Togo, but because of the roads, we were only there for about half an hour. Nonetheless, it was nice to get out of our training site and have an afternoon free from French class, the new bane of my existence. The way home was where the real adventure began. Because the roads on the way to the lake had been so bad, we decided to take another route home, and we were stuck in traffic for no nearly four hours. For both motionsickness and traffic, Togo is worse than "the island which must not be named" (Sicily for everyone who is not Ian). We didn’t get home until nearly ten o’clock (the Togolaise equivalent of four in the morning). Nearly everyone had a great sense of humor about, though it was a little difficult to explain to our host families who have become surprisingly protective. The result of the whole trip was a lot of new road trip games and our new motto, “Well, this is Togo.”Fu Fu Louhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16285965959861195438noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5328460884384505548.post-89676304954006230362009-06-27T08:09:00.000-07:002009-06-27T08:15:19.805-07:00Jugs and Johnsons Toujours, Toujours (June 26)So a lot of you have been asking about the kinds of things we do here. The answer is that we do a lot of things. Our days are filled with classes of all kinds, but all of them have the combined effect of ridding us of embarrassment of any kind. Let me give you an idea.<br /><br />1. We look at breasts. I learned this week that according to a 1999 study by UNICEF, if every baby worldwide were breastfed exclusively and on-demand for the first six months of life, more than 1.5 million infant lives would be saved each year. I was floored. For this reason, it’s important for all of us to be able to talk about nursing, and for that, everyone has to be comfortable talking about breasts (read::saying words like areola to a group of complete strangers). This week I got to give a presentation on breastfeeding including several diagrams and a demonstration of proper holding techniques. We also talked about the effect nursing a dozen or so children for a couple of years each has on breasts. It’s not pretty. Eventually, everyone has to be ready to do this sort of presentation. I just got to be the first. I think it will be considerably more awkward for the men.<br /><br />2. We talk about poo. A lot. In fact, we had an entire day dedicated to diarrhea, its causes and remedies, and the complications it can cause. This was not my favorite day, and I don’t like to think about it.<br /><br />3. We practice putting condoms on model penises. That’s right, last week we showed up for class, and after a quick review of safe sex strategies, the instructor removed from her mysterious black case several penis models of various size, color, and texture. Variety is, after all, the spice of life. She then divided us into teams of five with one penis to a team and proceeded to have a relay race employing the correct techniques of putting on and removing a condom. It was adult film school field day.<br /><br />4. We have hours upon hours of French class. I know this one is not exciting, but it fills up the better part of many days, and necessary as the courses are, they are a source of endless frustration and embarrassment. I know some of you are thinking it can’t be that bad, but my friend B would tell you otherwise. The dog at his house recently had puppies, and he asked his host father what he was going to do with them. The dad named several friends who had spoken for puppies, but B really wanted one as well. When the dad asked what he would do with the dog, B told him he wanted to take it to post to be his “petite amie,” literally his little friend but in common usage his girlfriend. Awkward.<br /><br />Aside from all that, we live in a great village with a lot of very friendly and very curious people who ask us questions we don’t really understand and laugh interminably at out answers. Usually, I don’t know why, but it’s starting to bother my less. I just smile and wave good-bye. With my right hand, not my left--that would be embarrassing.<br /><br /><br />Also, CONGRATULATIONS to Katie, Alex, and Olivia on the birth of John, who is beautiful!Fu Fu Louhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16285965959861195438noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5328460884384505548.post-3627732853097381042009-06-27T08:06:00.000-07:002009-06-27T08:13:02.122-07:00UltimateThe Ultimate (June 21)<br /><br />This is the story of yesterday. It’s not that interesting, but in some ways, it’s a micro chasm of how the trip’s going thus far, and all of you keep asking, so here it is.<br /><br />Yesterday, nothing bad happened. I didn’t have a conflict with anyone, the food wasn’t bad, the homework wasn’t any more difficult or boring that usual, and it wasn’t particularly hot. I wasn’t too tired or too homesick or too sunburned. But it felt like a bad day. I was having a hard time focusing on my work, and I was having a hard time being companionable with my fellow PCTs. I had spent a little time grumbling with another volunteer. I was not in love with the Peace Corps. French class seemed to last an eternity, and once it was over, all I felt like doing was sitting by myself. I was reading an Ian McEwan novel (my fave at the moment), and I just wanted to sit alone and finish it. Unfortunately, when you live with a host family in a small village in West Africa, alone is not always an option. I was walking along with a vague idea of sitting in the huge village church to read when I bumped into several PCTs who invited me to come an play ultimate Frisbee with them. This did not jive with my “alone time” plan, but I’ve been just a little worried about developing a reputation for being that volunteer who doesn’t ever do anything with the other volunteers. Like maybe I think I’m better than other people, maybe I have some deep seeded attachment disorder, maybe I’m a secret sociopath. Probably they wouldn’t have thought that, but you can’t be too careful. I told them maybe I would stop by and watch with the secret plan to sit not too far away and read, essentially still by myself but with the appearance of sociability. At the field, there were five PCTs and my host brother, whom someone had recruited. With the addition of the guy I walked with, the teams were uneven. If I didn’t play, someone else would have to sit out, and I know my host brother would have volunteered. I had to play. I played. It was fantastic. Really, I would be hard pressed to remember the last time I played Ultimate Frisbee, but I think it must have been in high school youth group back in the TSCC days. After about ten minutes, several boys from the village had joined us, and we were explaining the rules in broken French between possessions. We were all filthy, no one was taking the game too seriously, and we all had a blast. We built bridges with people in the village, I got to know my host brother better, and I got to have fun with my colleagues. Just like that, my day was transformed.<br /><br />Since then, I’ve been thinking a little bit about it, and I’ve taken a couple of things away from the day. The first is you can’t have fun if you don’t play. You have to keep working at being happier. The second is that physical activity really is good for you. I hadn’t thought much about it, but we don’t do a lot physically here, and I think it had been getting to me. The third is that most uncertainties and most moods will pass if I just let them. Right now, everything is new, and a lot of it is uncomfortable for that reason, but I have to be a little slower to make decisions about how things are going or how they will go. I mean, I’ve beenn told I’m a little moody, but this is extreme. When I was in RCIA, I had a really great sponsor, and more than once I went into her office and said, “I just can’t do this.” She always said, “That’s fine. No one will be disappointed, but let’s talk about it tomorrow.” And of course, by the time tomorrow came, it was always better. So I think for a little while at least, that’s going to be my motto. “Let’s see how it is tomorrow. Or ten minutes from now."<br /><br /><br />FINALLY, A HUGE HAPPY FATHER'S DAY TO MY PADRE!Fu Fu Louhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16285965959861195438noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5328460884384505548.post-32342073498718770062009-06-15T09:18:00.001-07:002009-12-22T06:00:18.581-08:00Ma Famille Hote (6-14)So we’ve been at our new homes for four days now. Because of Peace Corps safety regulations, I’m not allowed to post the name of the village where we’re training, but I can tell you that it’s a small village about an hour away from Lome by heavenly air-conditioned Peace Corps vans. Our group of 25 has been split into Small Business folks and Health workers. The Small Business people are staying in this completely cush city with running water and electricity. We health workers, on the other hand, are embracing the realities of Togolaise village life.<br /><br />There are some difficult things:<br /><br />1. There is no electricity, and it gets dark around 6:30. This means that you get to eat dinner by the light of a kerosene lantern, which is pretty cool except that it makes it considerably more challenging to find those tiny and very hot peppers in the food.<br /><br />2. Latrines. For those of you who are experienced in these lovely little novelties, I needn’t say more. For the rest of you, a West African latrine is basically a wooden chair with a hole in the bottom which leads to a deep hole of yuck. There is a lid which covers the hole, and it’s a good idea to knock on the lid a few times to frighten away the animals which live inside. This includes but is not limited to cockroaches, lizards, spiders, and snakes. I will admit to having had some trepidations about this system. Most of you know how I feel about animals in general, and you can probably guess that my attitudes toward those four kinds of animals is even less friendly, but so far, so good.<br /><br />3. It is HOT. There is no thermometer to be found, but I am comfortable saying I’ve never been this hot in my life including my short visits to the Middle East. I think a lot of that feeling has to do with the fact that it is unbelievably humid here. A favorite volunteer pastime seems to be sitting very still in the shade and sweating. Luckily for us, we got here during the rainy season, so some days there is a torrential downpour, which makes everything seem a lot better. Of course this means that we are also perpetually muddy. This isn’t so bad, though, because it’s a good excuse for a…<br /><br />4. BUCKET SHOWER. I am putting this under the difficulties column because I’d much rather have running water, but in truth it’s not so bad. Basically, a bucket shower is just what it sounds like. You have a bucket (roughly 1-2 gallons) of cool water and a little scooper, and you go to it. Needless to say, this is very refreshing on a hot afternoon, but it’s not like you ever feel as clean as you do standing under a serious shower head at home with your loofah and moisturizing and exfoliating vitamin enriched body wash. One friend said it best, “You know how gross and dirty you felt after the overnight trans-Atlantic flight? Ugh, you just think the grossest feeling is waking up after a night on an airplane to a day spent in an airport. You’re not clean, you don’t feel well-groomed, and you feel icky about it. THAT WAS NOTHING. That feeling right now would be phenomenal. We didn’t know what gross was.” People say our bodies will adjust to the climate. I hope they’re right. For the moment, I’m trying to like the smell of my own sweat.<br /><br />5. My French is not so good. I mean, when I came to Togo, I knew I wasn’t going to awe anyone with my language skills, but I thought I would be okay. So far, my inability to communicate has been a source of endless frustration. Part of the problem is that French is everybody’s second language, so none of us is able to speak as fluidly as we’d like, but I think a bigger part is the accent and dialect of French spoken in Togo. In many ways it is starkly different from the Parisian French I learned in school. Thankfully, my host mother is wonderfully patient, and when she speaks slowly, I can understand almost everything she says. With my host father, it is considerably more difficult. That’s the time for a lot of nodding and smiling. I have no idea what he is saying, but I am determined to look as though I find it deeply interesting and pleasurable.<br /><br />6. My Ewe is worse than my French. Ewe (pronounced Eh-vay) is the local language where we are, and we are all trying to pick up as much of it as we can, but it isn’t easy. It is a tonal language, which is really hard for my American tongue to figure out. For the moment, I have to satisfy myself with repeating things like “cocolo” (chicken), “enmo” (motorcycle), “tehtahn” (truck), and “kay-kay” after my host brother in a sort of game he made up for the two of us to play. It’s a little like I’m his pet parrot. I haven’t yet determined whether the purpose of this game is to entertain him and his friends by my failure, but I do think I’m improving, so I’ve decided it doesn’t matter. I’d better get used to being laughed at anyway, as it seems to be a pretty common theme here.<br /><br />We like to tell ourselves that all those things are just character building and try instead to focus on the really great things:<br /><br />1. My host family is fantastic. I can’t post their names, but I have Maman, Papa, Brother M (17), Sister-in-Law R (20), Sister P (14), Sister N (6), and Niece B (7 mos.). There are also two other sisters and a brother who are soldiers in Lome, but I haven‘t met them. Upon arrival I was much relieved to discover that my baby whispering skills translate better than my French. This way, even though I am useless at charcoal and wood fire cook stoves, I can at least keep Baby B calm. I have decided that in Togo as in the rest of the world, it remains a good philosophy to make children like you, and then their parents will like you, too. J However, being otherwise useless is sort of a blow to me because though I have never been the Martha Stewart my mom is, I have always found my skills sufficient to cooking and cleaning demands. It turns out that at all those choir concession stands and family reunions, I should have spent less time on the megaphone and more time carefully observing Gail and Andy and all my uncles work their magic on the charcoal because apparently charcoal is more difficult than you might think. I am beginning to feel like all those North Quad guys I made fun of in college. Karma.<br /><br />2. The food is great. Seriously. I have no complaints about the food. It can be a little spicy, but that’s mostly because I am a wimp. My host mom has been really accommodating about my diet, and she hasn’t tried to make me eat anything with meat in it (though I did have to compromise on the bouillon cube). Every morning I get tea English style (a little nicety to which I became absolutely addicted in London, thanks in large part to Katie, Amy, Di, and company) and an onion omelet on bread. It’s all very nice. Lunch is usually some sort of tomato, fish and vegetable sauce with rice, and dinner is some sort of pasta with fish. I think when I said I don’t eat meat, my host mom wasn’t sure what to do, so she bought out all the fish in a 10k radius. In truth, I will be happy not to eat fish for awhile once training is finished, but for the moment I’m trying not to let her down by eating too little. Every meal someone walks up to be and says, “Il faut que tu mange beaucoup!” Literally, “It is necessary that you eat much.” It’s like trying to share a pizza with Andy Magee and Brendan Hanehan. I’m doing my best, folks.<br /><br />3. Because there is no electricity, there is nothing to do after dinner but sit around and talk. (well, and sweat, of course), and since my talking is not so hot yet, I have been teaching my family American card games. This is great because it’s a good diversion for everyone, it’s a good chance for me to practice my French, and it lets me be social with my family without my dictionary. For the past four nights we’ve played Uno and Go Fish by the light of my kerosene lamp, and I think everyone is having a good time. By the second night of Uno, I think everyone pretty well mastered it (except for the part where you shout “UNO,“ which they don’t like) despite my poor teaching abilities, but “Go Fish” has proven to be significantly more difficult. I would like to be able to blame my family, but I think it’s mostly due to Franglais instructions which translate to, “It is necessary that when it is not your time for going, you listen to the time for going of others. If you listen to their demands for cards, it is possible that you know the cards and in the hands of each person what cards there are.” Yes, Emily, good strategy tips, really. After an hour or so of playing they overcame my poor instruction, and I think everyone had fun. Maybe this week we’ll try something like War.<br /><br />4. I have a posse. Seriously. As far as I can tell, I’m the only one, but there is a gang of small children who follow me singing the “Yovo Song.” None of us has quite deciphered the words, but yovo is their word for a person with fair skin, and as we walk, children often shout out to us, “Yovo! Yovo! Ca va?” It’s always very friendly, and with most of the volunteers, they just shout this greeting and wave a lot. For some reason, however, there are a few children who really like to follow me all the way to the door of my house. They talk a lot, and I nod and smile. This doesn’t really bother me, and they’re very nice, but it would be okay with me to be slightly less conspicuous, so when we got our bikes, I was looking forward to commutes that were a little less overwhelming. Imagine my dismay (and embarrassment) to discover that many of the children can run up the hill to school as fast as I can ride my bike. Ouch.<br /><br />5. The other trainees are great. Training so far has been full of unexpected delights and frustrations, but it’s really nice to know that there are twelve other people with similar concerns. We all help encourage one another’s dedication and fortitude. Already, we’re adopting the Togo PCV’s mantra, “Du Courage,” which is a little like “Be a champion.”<br /><br />6.The classes and trainers are excellent. It’s been a long time since I spent eight hours a day in school, but it’s worth it. We’re learning great things about the health problems facing Togo and about the Togolaise medical system. I thought all this information would seem daunting, like we’d never be able to make a dent, but the trainers have a way of presenting it in a way that helps us to feel empowered to make discernable and beneficial changes. Always, our mission is “Educate for a Behavior Change.” So far we’ve learned a little about everything from traditional healers and midwives to nutrition and family planning. We won’t know for another two weeks what our posts are, but already we’re beginning to think about projects.<br /><br />Finally, many of you have asked about the timeline, so here it is.<br /><br />For the next ten weeks, we will be in training in our host families. Next week, we will hear presentations about the conditions and necessary work at each of the possible CHAP posts, and we will have interviews in which we can express our preferences about which post we are assigned. Sometime during the fourth week (June 29-July4), we will find out what our post assignments are, and we will spend week 7 (July 21-27) at our respective posts before returning to training for three and a half more weeks. We will leave our training sites and be sworn in as Peace Corps Volunteers on August 20. On the 22nd, we head off to our posts for two years. It’s all a little daunting, so for the moment, I’m trying to focus on not getting sunburned because of the malaria meds.<br /><br />Okay, that’s all I’ve got for now. Thanks for all the email. Keep it coming. My host family is great, but it’s a little lonely, so I love to hear from you all.<br /><br />A quick shout out to the birthdays I missed in the past couple of weeks:<br /><br />Happy Birthday to<br /><br />Logan who celebrated his 9th !<br />Dan-Hope a Kigali birthday was all you hoped it would be.<br />Steph-22 is not nearly as exciting as last year….<br />Joe who looks fantastic for being nearly 50<br />And<br />Grammy who also looks fantastic for being nearly 50 JFu Fu Louhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16285965959861195438noreply@blogger.com0